Page 1

Chapter 1

Everybody Talks

HANS

I t’s been ages since we’ve stopped moving, my legs leaden as we trudge through the forest’s depths. I shoot a sidelong glance at Gerrit, catching sight of his stern profile.

Sensing my gaze, he turns his glare on me. His voice is rough when he asks, “Tired already, Hans?”

I scoff, attempting to hide the weariness that feels damn near permanent in my bones. Flint, my wolf familiar, nuzzles against my leg and lets out a low whine. He’s giving me an out. I ruffle his agouti fur in silent thanks.

“Not me, I could go for ages still,” I exaggerate. Flint nips my thigh, silently telling me to roll it back some. “But I think Flint is ready to make camp.”

We’ve been wandering in these Gods-forsaken woods for weeks now. It’s not getting any easier. I’m nearly ready to give up hope. I would have already if we had any other options.

But we don’t, so we’re stuck trudging along, hoping to find a fairy tale.

A legend.

At this rate, I fear we’ll forever be on an uphill journey.

Gerrit gruffs out a sound akin to agreement and turns, hands on his broad hips, to survey the land. With his arms perched like that, he somehow manages to look even bigger than he actually is. He’s barrel-chested, with a shock of bright blonde hair that cascades to his shoulders in soft waves. Black tattoos stretching up his arms and throat stand out against his pale skin. He’s a formidable foe, and in the number of times I’ve gone up against him, I’ve only come out on top a handful.

“Here will do,” he mutters, quickly busying himself by gathering wood for a fire. He’s not one to idle.

I squat in front of Flint and nod toward the woods. “Catch us some dinner, will you boy?” He’s off in a bound, unable to ignore my command.

That’s the thing about familiars. They’re as much a part of you as you are them. Sometimes, I wonder just how intertwined my fate is with that of the wolf.

After Gerrit gets the fire roaring, we settle around it, stretching our legs towards the warmth and loosening our tense muscles. Gerrit has a good head on me in height, so his feet are closer to the flames than my own, even though I am far from short.

He is all brute strength, loud, and brash. Growing up, the village would call us the Brain and the Brawn. It was meant to be cute, chiding two young boys about the mischief we were getting into. As we aged, it took on a darker spin.

I, the Brain, can manipulate and connive anyone I meet to get my way. And if they can resist my charm, the Brawn is behind me to force the issue.

Gerrit and I are brothers in every way but blood. My mother died when I was young, and eventually, my father married his mother, joining us as a family. We were in school together and knew each other well, so we were ecstatic about the marriage. It was almost a nonstop party, having two best friends under the same roof.

That is until Gerrit’s mother turned on me.

I look over the fire at him, locking his blue eyes with mine. He’s been regarding me for some time, quietly contemplating something he has yet to share.

Just because I am the Brain does not mean Gerrit is without. His intelligence lies in strategy, which is easier to hide from outsiders. I always enjoy implementing his plans; it can be quite a rush.

He sometimes lacks care for physical safety, but Flint can help me out of most of the sticky situations Gerrit gets us into.

Flint comes bounding through the woods with a large hare in his teeth, his eyes triumphant. “Good job, boy!” I boom, standing to greet him. He drops the hare at my feet and sits, looking at me with warmth and expectancy in his eyes. I ruffle the fur on his head again.

Flint may act like a trained house dog with me, but he is not to be underestimated. He is a formidable wolf and more than loyal. His shoulders come to my waist, and I have seen him gut a grown man who attempted to attack me from behind.

I do quick work cleaning the hare and tossing the entrails to Flint. He happily gobbles them up while the beast roasts.

Gerrit is a man of few words, so it surprises me when he speaks around a mouthful of meat.

“I think we’re nearly there.” He sniffs the air, looking around us.

“How can you tell?” Despite the lack of seasonings, the meat is juicy and satisfying. I rip pieces off the bone and shove it in my mouth.

He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “I can smell her.”

We left the city of Greenbell weeks ago in search of the legendary witch of the Whispering Woods.

As children, we grew up hearing fables of a woman who built her house out of sweets to lure naughty children in and eat them. I never once believed the tales, but Gerrit fell for them every time, convinced this witch would get him the moment we stepped into these woods.

Because of these stories, we have long avoided the woods, choosing not to explore the land further.

Until now.

“What could a witch possibly smell like?” I wonder aloud, picking at the meat I have skewered on a stick.

He shrugs, taking another deep inhale of the forest air clouded with smoke from our fire. “She smells like sweetmeats.”

My laugh shakes some birds from the limbs of the trees. “Get off it, Gerrit. You still believe those childhood tales?”

“Why wouldn’t I? If we’re going to her to ask for help, and we truly expect to find her, who’s to say she isn’t exactly who we think she is?”

He has a point, though I am loathe to admit it. “If she is real, we still don’t know if she will help us,” I murmur.

Having finished his meal, Flint comes to me and puts his head on my thigh. It’s a comforting gesture, but as I look down, I see the glimmer in his eyes that heralds his desire to speak to me.

I hold up a finger to pause Gerrit and feed my hands through Flint’s fur. With my skin firmly anchored on him, I can feel the magic between us flow more easily. While I could hear him without touching him, it is like trying to listen to a quiet conversation in a crowded room. If I can connect with him physically, the process is much easier.

“I still worry this witch will be unable to help you, Master.” His voice is deep, carrying centuries of knowledge.

I ruffle the fur around his neck. “I know, boy, but we still must try. She’s the only hope we have of saving Father.”

Flint whines, and I hear it with my ears instead of my mind. He’s as upset about what’s happening to Father as Gerrit and I are.

Flint joined our family when I turned fourteen, and the first glimmers of magic began to show in me. A familiar is not like a normal animal. He is made of magic. A familiar does not die. They simply choose a different vessel to inhabit. While rare in Greenbell, magic feels very much alive in the Whispering Woods, and he seems to thrive here.

Whether fortunate or un, I have been blessed with powerful, unexpected magic. But it alone is not enough to heal father/

And thus, the search for the witch.

“Big Boy is correct. You are nearly at her doorstep.”

I snort at his nickname for my brother. “His name is Gerrit, Flint. Not Big Boy. And how do you know?” Gerrit narrows his eyes at my familiar.

“The creatures talk. They fear her.”

“Rightfully so, I would imagine.” Let’s hope the rumors about the witch detailing her consumption of children were incredibly far off from the truth.

“Hey, asshole, I’m still here, you know,” Gerrit complains, pulling me out of my trance with Flint. Flint grumbles a weak growl towards Gerrit but curls up in a ball at my feet.

“Flint says we’re nearly there. We need a plan.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I have one.”